


Cursed With You

by imalright



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/F, Sickfic, tfw your cute crush is also super fucking scary!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22282864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imalright/pseuds/imalright
Summary: Hilda is delighted when, during her third extremely boring solo night shift, someone walks in the front door.“Hellooooo!” she calls over the reception desk. She sits up in her chair and sets her takeout container in front of her. “Ooh, I love your sweater!”A woman around her age with soft blue hair and a crown of braids looks at her with wide eyes. Hilda does actually love her sweater; a dark blue oversized chunky knitted thing someone could really hide in. She almost shrinks into it and her eyes dart back to the door she entered through.“Oh, I’m so sorry, did I scare you?” Hilda stands, quite cutely and nonthreateningly if she may say so herself, “Hi! I’m Hilda, I’m new here. I see you let yourself in, do you also work the night shift?”Hilda's a vampire. Marianne is not.
Relationships: Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril
Comments: 45
Kudos: 311





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Marihilda week day five: Beast

“Are you sure you’re ready to work a solo shift?”

Hilda smiles sweetly, crinkling up her eyes just so and batting her lashes. “I think I can handle it.”

Cashe — Ashe? — breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay, great. Just — just call me if you need anything, okay?”

Hilda nods.

“I might be asleep but I have my phone set to actually ring if you call twice — “

Hilda nods.

“And, um, if I don’t answer after that just try again in ten minutes, I might be helping my siblings with something — “

Hilda nods.

“And, um, if I don’t answer again, maybe call the police? And then call Dedue. Oh, but only has a last resort, he’s really overworked — “

“Okay, okay, I get it!” Hilda throws her arms up and laughs. “Call for help if I need it and don’t let the shelter burn down. It’ll be fine! I promise.”

Stashe or whatever seems wary, but through a combination of Hilda’s winning smile and his desperation to go home he finally allows a heavy breath to escape. Hilda can see the tension release from his body.

“Yeah, it’ll be fine,” he mutters to himself. Hilda pretends she didn’t hear. “It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.”

He repeats his little mantra to himself, running a hand through his gray hair — _is that natural?_ — as he gathers his things and walks out the front doors. Hilda waves bye bye and locks up behind him, her indoors and he unlocking his bike from the rack out front. He must be having second, third, and fourth thoughts; he doesn’t wave goodbye or even look back in her direction when he rides off to the north.

“Sheesh, dude, have some faith,” Hilda says to nobody, “We all know I’m the best for the job.”

Though, to be fair to Rashe, most folks don’t know why.

The truth is, Hilda’s nocturnal. Not in a quirky I’ll-sleep-when-I’m-dead way, nor in an insomniac way, but in the way that she’s _actually nocturnal._ Night shifts were practically made for her.

It took awhile for her to figure this out; for hundreds of years her every need was taken care of by staff and family alike, her meals cooked and her clothes bought and her home maintained, all while she occupied herself crafting more and more intricate pieces of jewelry and hair accessories. Her world fell to shambles around her when her father declared it time for her to spread her wings, sometimes literally, and build her own life in the world. Her beloved brother had stood up for her, but until he’s named head of house his testimony means little.

Generational wealth? Gone. Political connections? Out. Servants to draw her a perfectly warm bath? Torn away.

No, now she has to _work_ , she has to _pay bills,_ she has to _network._ Taking care of herself is hard and she just _knows_ her father is out there somewhere, watching her struggle.

She’s learned a handful of things.

One, humans will swear to the goddess, and _mean it,_ that the supernatural isn’t, well, natural. She’s told a few friends over the years that she’s really a vampire, come on, just _look_ at her teeth, and every single one of them thought she was joking.

Two, humans notice when she doesn’t age. This doesn’t convince them she’s a vampire, either, and they don’t like when she answers their questions about skincare with “I just drink blood, my guy.”

Three, most humans can’t stand being nocturnal. They get sick, they get depressed, they get lonely and crabby and altogether insufferable. The humans she’s met working night shifts have overwhelmingly been put off by her excellent personality.

Which brings her to where she is now, ambling to the rolling chair behind a decorated reception desk.

Hilda _loves_ the night shift. The pay is usually better because nobody wants to do it, there’s fewer angry customers and far more weird ones, and most importantly, she doesn’t have to do shit.

She kicks her feet up onto the desk and leans back; Trashe, diligent little worker boy that he is, finished all the cleaning and animal care before he left. She loves him. She can dick around on her phone all night, and when the morning shift person gets here it’ll look like she cleaned the place top to bottom.

After all, why would anybody show up at an animal shelter at two A.M.?

* * *

  
  
  


Hilda is delighted when, during her third _extremely boring_ solo night shift, someone walks in the front door.

“Hellooooo!” she calls over the reception desk. She sits up in her chair and sets her takeout container in front of her. “Ooh, I love your sweater!”

A woman around her age with soft blue hair and a crown of braids looks at her with wide eyes. Hilda does actually love her sweater; a dark blue oversized chunky knitted thing someone could really hide in. She almost shrinks into it and her eyes dart back to the door she entered through.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, did I scare you?” Hilda stands, quite cutely and nonthreateningly if she may say so herself, “Hi! I’m Hilda, I’m new here. I see you let yourself in, do you also work the night shift?”

Well, at least she doesn’t seem like she’s about to run away. She nods jerkily. Hilda waits for her to speak up and gives up after like, thirty seconds.

“So what’s your name? What do you do around here?”

“Um,” ah, her voice is like a ringing bell, “I, um, I’m a behaviorist. They — they call me in for, um, difficult cases.” Hilda waits patiently for her to finish. She trips over her own words a lot, and she’s very conscious of the words she chooses to use. 

“And your name?”

“Oh, um, why would you want to know my name..?”

Hilda cocks her head, letting her ponytail sway with the movement. “Why wouldn’t I? I know everyone’s name here! I know Dedue, I know Caspar, I know Hashe —”

“H-Hashe?”

Hilda nods. “Yeah, Hashe or whatever. You know, grey hair, green eyes, freckles, real sweetheart?”

She looks to the side. “His name is Ashe,” she corrects, but it’s so soft and timid it almost seems like a suggestion.

“Hm? What was that?”

“I-I’m sorry,” she nearly breathes the words, she’s so quiet.

“What are you sorry for?” Hilda leans in and smiles, “I just didn’t hear you!”

She doesn’t answer. 

Hilda leans in more. They’re nearly nose-to-nose, now; Her face is turning a bright pink to rival Hilda’s own (very cute) outfit. She smells, Hilda realizes, like Lily of the Valley. Or like the _ghost_ of Lily of the Valley intermingled with… _something._

“Wh-what are you doing?” Her voice wavers. She’s off her guard.

“I just like, can’t hear you from so far away!” Hilda’s own voice is lowered. She’s going to weasel her way in through the cracks in this girl’s facade. “I thought I’d get a bit closer. So, what did you say again?”

She looks from Hilda to the wall to her own hands and Hilda waits.

“I-I said his name is Ashe.”

“Ashe!” Hilda leans back and Marianne breathes a sigh of relief, “Of course, silly me! Yeah, I know Ashe and Raphael and, uh,” she takes a moment to try and remember everyone else but draws a blank, “Huh, a lot of people work here.”

She doesn’t answer yet again. That’s okay. Hilda’s _great_ at conversation.

“So, your name? I don’t want you to be left out.”

“Marianne.”

Hilda’s eyebrows shoot up

“Marianne!” She tries out the name and finds it tastes sweet, soft. “I love it! Well, Marianne, just let me know if you need any help with anything, ‘kay?”

She steps back out of Marianne’s space and back behind her reception desk. Marianne visibly deflates. Hilda may have overdone it. She shuffles past and through the door leading to the kennels. Hilda waits, one, two, three, and she slips through the door behind her.

Absolutely nothing strange happens.

A door at the far end of the room closes just as Hilda enters. She walks confidently, careful not to make eye contact with any of the animals; there aren’t a lot, the only ones that stay at the shelter longer than a week or so have delicate health concerns or aggression issues, but animals have never been fond of her and it only takes one determined dog to ruin her night. They don’t even seem to notice her. 

She follows Marianne into the next room and is greeted by a long hall lined with doors and posters about dog ownership. 

“Great,” she mutters, “Just great.”

The prospect of returning to cold takeout in an empty room isn’t particularly welcoming; or, at least, not as welcoming as making a new friend. She peeks through the glass panel on each of the doors as she passes. Empty room, empty room, empty room with a chair, empty room with a chair and a chewed up rope toy, empty room, empty room, empty — ah.

She doesn’t bother trying to conceal herself and blatantly stares, leaning against the door up on her tiptoes to get a better view. Marianne is kneeling directly on the concrete floor, softly gesturing to _something._ Hilda holds her breath until, crouched low to the ground and moving cautiously, an enormous dog comes into view and sniffs Marianne’s hand.

“That’s it, see? Everything’s okay,” she can barely make out Marianne’s words, “I’m not going to hurt you. Nobody here is going to hurt you.”

Tension leaves the dog’s body in waves. Hilda can practically _see_ its relief, and she can most definitely see Marianne’s satisfaction.

“I’m so proud. I’m so proud. You’re a good girl. You’re a good girl.”

Hilda’s unbeating heart swells to ten times its size. Sometimes humans are good. Sometimes humans are like, _so_ cute.

  
  


* * *

Turns out Marianne works most nights, she just happened to be sick the first two nights Hilda was working. Every night she comes in around midnight, looking various shades of exhausted, and does… whatever it is she does. Hilda’s not really sure.

She understands, though, why Dedue wanted someone on night shift to clean up.

Marianne, who is _so_ sweet, doesn’t seem to realize she exists in a place. A place with stuff and things that can be bumped into, misplaced, or knocked over, and she tracks mud in on even the most unlikely nights. Hilda once watched her throw a bin of dog toys and stand, staring dejectedly at the mess, until Hilda shuffled over and picked everything up nice and easy.

“It’s no trouble,” Hilda had assured her before she could apologize. “Don’t look so heartbroken!”

Every night Marianne comes in, and every night another animal goes from being unadoptable to just lovely. One by one the shelter cycles through its most troublesome cases, and day by day Hilda finds herself wondering when she should ask for Marianne’s number.

Of course, the night Marianne doesn’t come in is the night she steels her nerves.

Hilda can’t help but feel a bit crushed when Marianne doesn’t come in the following night, either.

“Is she okay?” she asks Ashe, who nods.

“She gets sick a lot,” he explains, “She’ll be back in no time, don’t worry too much about her.”

Hilda’s terrible at following directions and sits behind the reception desk, quite worried, from ten til midnight, and then another forty-five minutes after that. She’s finally resigned herself to another boring, anxious night when the front door opens.

“Marianne?” she calls.

There’s no answer. A good sign.

“Is that Miss Marianne?” she calls in a singsong voice. She stands from her chair and smiles brightly at Marianne. The weak wave she gives in return feels more like a punch to the gut.

Marianne looks, well, fucked up. Her hair is falling out of its haphazard braid and strands fall over her face and shoulders; she’s pale, paler than usual, and dark bags stand out under her eyes; even her clothes are rumpled, wrinkled, like she picked them up off the floor and came straight to work.

“Wow, uh, Marianne? Should you be coming to work if you’re still sick?” Hilda approaches her and rests the back of her hand against her forehead. It’s a testament to how exhausted she is that she doesn’t protest. “You’re burning up! Go home!”

Marianne just sighs heavily and trudges past Hilda. She can see the smallest shake of her head. 

“The animals will be fine!” she says, but Marianne ignores her and makes her way to the visiting rooms as normal. “Ugh! Everything’s always up to me,” she grumbles.

The following night she comes prepared. She brings tea, ginger, cans of soup and bottles of wine. 

“Oh, I can’t — I couldn’t possibly —”

“Nonsense!” Hilda waves her off. “You’ve been sick, you _insist_ on coming to work anyway. I’m supposed to keep things together overnight, and that includes you!”

“Oh,” Marianne looks down, her brows furrowed together. That was the wrong thing to say.

“I don’t mean like that —”

“No, it’s okay,” Marianne says. It almost sounds like she’s trying not to cry. “I’m sorry to be such a burden.”

Hilda’s frozen in place. The words sink in ice cold and her heart drops and, when Marianne turns to make her way to the back, Hilda’s feet finally remember how to work. She steps forward and embraces Marianne, sinking into her, pulling her to sink back.

“You’re no burden,” she whispers, “You’re my _friend.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had this doc open forever, but then marihilda week went and had the perfect prompt so here we are


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh, Marianne’s sick, she won’t be coming in tonight.”

Hilda looks up at Ashe. He’s checking something on his phone and not really paying attention to her extremely compassionate expression.

“She gets sick a lot, huh?” she whines.

“She does. I already told you not to worry, so don’t worry,” he says. 

Hilda crosses her arms. “Why does she get sick so much? Does she get enough sleep?”

Ashe stares at her. “I just told you not to worry, Hilda,” he explains patiently, “If she hasn’t told you herself, maybe she doesn’t want you to know.”

Oh, Hilda does  _ not _ like that. Before she’s able to formulate a response Ashe has run out the front door and left Hilda alone to sit under fluorescent lights with only herself, her needlenose pliers, and a length of wire. She throws herself behind the reception desk with a heavy sigh that almost seems to echo around the entry.

“Oh, Marianne,” she says to nobody, “The night shift isn’t for everyone.”

Marianne is still sick the following night, but this time instead of Ashe running out the door before Hilda can ask too many questions, it’s Caspar drinking from a gallon jug of water who’s lounging against the reception desk.

“Hilda!” he shouts. Hilda represses a flinch. “I haven’t seen you since training! How’ve you been!”

“Oh, you know,” Hilda needs a moment to pump up her energy level. Caspar’s at like, a nine out of ten on the pumped scale, and this early in the evening she’s barely a five. “Work, work, blah blah blah. Is Marianne sick again?”

He nods and raises his gallon of water in a toast. “Poor girl gets sick once a month, it feels like! I keep telling her to drink more water and eat more vegetables, but it never seems to help!”

“Really? Once a month?” Hilda scratches her chin, “It feels like  _ way _ more often than that.”

Caspar shrugs. “You see her more often than anyone else, you know! I bet it feels like more often since she’s the only other night person!”

“Hmph. Maybe.” Hilda sighs and forces on a much more excited smile than she’s really feeling. “What’s like, the deal, anyway? Does she not get enough sleep?”

Caspar throws his arms up in the air in outrage. “Who knows! She doesn’t look like she ever sleeps! I mean, who can blame her, she works nights  _ and _ she lives in Little Bin —”

_ “She lives in a little bin?!” _

“What?!” Caspar bursts into laughter. “Who told you she lives in a little bin?! No, no, no, she lives in a duplex her uncle owns or something.”

“Then why did you says he lives in a little bin?!”

“OH! Hah! I see what happened!” Caspar pounds his water gallon on the desk with his laughter. Hilda’s thoroughly confused and extremely worried. “You’re new to the city, huh?”

She’s not. She shrugs.

“Oh, don’t worry about it, it’s easy! So the shelter’s in Midtown. Like, we’re in Midtown right now.” Hilda nods. Sure. Whatever. “So we’re in Midtown, which is weirdly not in the middle, but whatever! Now, if you go north,” Caspar seems to be drawing an invisible map in the air with his fingertips, “You’ll end up in Market Cross! Used to be really upscale shopping —”

Caspar continues to explain the geography of the entire city that Hilda’s lived in for decades. She blinks, nods along, and retains absolutely nothing. She’s pretty sure she should know this stuff. Oh! She knows The Gardens! That’s where the craft market is! Then he goes on to explain the difference between the bars in whatever zone and who cares land.

“And then you have Little Bin!” Hilda perks up now that she gives a shit again. Caspar is completely undeterred. “Little Bin is at the north east edge of the city! It’s basically a suburb, but it’s still technically part of Enbarr! There’s like, a lake that’s great for fishing, a national park with  _ great _ hiking, honestly Marianne lives in a great neighborhood if you don’t mind the distance!”

“Huh! That is like, so fascinating!” It’s not, but she needs him to keep talking. “If it’s so far and so nice, why can’t she sleep?”

“Oh!” He barks out a laugh, “Little Bin is way popular with college students! Cheap rent, the bus still runs there, there’s a ton of wild parties!”

“Yeesh, she can’t get like, really thick curtains? Earplugs?”

Caspar claps her on the shoulder. “I dunno! You should ask her!”

Ugh. A swing and a miss.

Hilda sighs. “Alright, alright. I will. Do you have her number or something?”

“Nope! I don’t have a phone!” Hilda looks pointedly at Caspar’s phone poking out of his pocket. “Anyway! I’d better go, I promised Bern I’d pick up dessert and it’s getting pretty late. See ya!”

Hilda sputters but by the time she gets her words in order Caspar has run out the door with a wave and a laugh. She stands, rooted to the spot, jaw dropped and body slack.

“I’ve been had,” she breathes, “By  _ Caspar, _ of all people.”

Hilda sits heavily behind the reception desk. She’s exhausted; Caspar has a way of sucking the life right out of her. It’s honestly impressive. He sucked the life out of her and lied straight to her face and ran off into the night. Fucking yikes at her.

“He knows something,” she mutters. A dog barks from the kennels behind her. She groans. It’s gonna be this kind of night.

* * *

So here’s what Hilda knows:

One, Caspar knows what’s up. If Caspar knows anything there’s no doubt Dedue knows everything. If Dedue knows everything chances are good Ashe knows enough to know something. 

Two, in the short few months Hilda’s worked with her, Marianne’s been sick three times. Three! Humans are fragile, goofy things, but she’s pretty sure that’s a lot of times.

Three, she always,  _ always _ comes in before she’s feeling better. Hilda almost feels sick thinking about the heavy bags under her eyes the nights following her nights off. 

And that’s it! That’s all she’s got. Even with medical textbooks open in front of her, webMD open on her phone, and several online forums claiming she either needs to drink diluted arsenic (no) or that she has terminal cancer (unlikely), she’s come no closer to finding an answer, and no closer to finding a way to help.

“Oh, Marianne,” she whines to her empty apartment, “It’s okay to ask for help.”

* * *

“So,” Hilda starts coyly, “I’ve been doing some research on how to help Marianne.”

Dedue levels her with a dead stare. It’d be like, really scary if she hadn’t seen him cradle a kitten like a human baby a few minutes ago, maybe. 

“But I just can’t seem to figure out what the problem is!” She sighs dramatically. “You know, right? Could you tell little ol’ me? Little ol’ Hilda?”

“I already told you, Hilda, if she hasn’t told you she probably doesn’t want you to know!”

Hilda sticks her tongue out at Ashe. He sticks his tongue out back.

“Ashe is right,” Dedue says evenly, “And I must ask that you don’t push her for an answer. She has quite enough problems.”

“How is a friend helping her a problem?” Hilda whines. She knows it’s annoying. She doesn’t care. “I could bring her medicine. Or soup! Isn’t soup like, really good when you’re sick?”

“She will be here tonight, I am sure she will accept soup from you then,” Dedue’s tone is final. Hilda pouts. Arguing further is  _ such _ a waste of time and energy, but she  _ wants _ to.

“Well, if that’s it —” Ashe begins, but he’s cut off by Hilda.

“I’ve only worked here for, like, three months!” Her voice is shrill. She gets a twisted sense of satisfaction from the way Ashe flinches. “She’s been sick three times! That’s like, once a month! That’s not healthy!”

“Healthy looks different for different people,” Dedue says entirely too reasonably for someone being dragged through the front door, “Be safe, Hilda. Have a good night.”

The door closes behind him and Hilda huffs and crosses her arms. Really, this whole thing could be solved if someone would just tell her!

Though, looking back at that conversation, she  _ does _ know a fourth thing:

Marianne seems to consistently get sick once a month. Now that she thinks about it, she’s out once a month with around a month between.

“Is she just on her  _ period?” _ Hilda scoffs.  _ “I _ get periods. Why would that be such a big secret? Fucking stupid.”

She sighs and sits behind the desk yet again and stares at the crafting supplies laid out neatly in front of her. Jewels, wire, pliers, and other bits and pieces are carefully categorized on the desk’s surface with stones, beads, metals, and tools in their own little containers. She picks up a piece of opalite and gets to wrapping it in silver wire knotted in intricate designs. She’s perfecting the proportions of a small crescent when the front doors open.

“Oh! Marianne! You’re back!” She stands up abruptly and takes in Marianne’s state; she’s exhausted, pale, and hunched over. “What was it this time? The flu? The plague? Cancer? C’mon, you can tell me.”

Marianne keeps her gaze fixed on the floor. “No, no. Nothing like that. Please don’t worry yourself over me, Hilda.” Ugh, she’s always so quiet. Hilda has to strain herself to hear.

“Friends worry, sweetie! It’s okay, it just means we care,” Hilda grins. Marianne doesn’t respond. “Anyway, I made you a get well gift!”

“O-oh, you don’t need to — I don’t need any gifts,” Marianne stutters, but Hilda’s hearing none of it. She threads a silver chain through the wire and bounds up to Marianne.

“Close your eyes!”

Marianne hesitantly meets her gaze and quickly looks back down. She takes her time and must eventually decide it’s safe, because she closes her eyes tight and holds her hands out. Hilda’s grin relaxes into a softer smile and she places the wrapped opalite gently into her palms. Marianne  _ flinches _ and her eyes shoot wide open, darting from the gift Hilda worked so diligently on to Hilda, herself.

“I can’t — why would you —” Hilda’s heart  _ breaks _ when Marianne shoves the piece back into her hands and grasps her own arms, “That — I —”

Not for the first time this week, Hilda finds herself frozen to the spot as Marianne flees through the door to the kennels. She holds the jewelry loosely in her hands and her mind races, weaving wonders just as intricate as the wire around the stone.

“What in the world,” she whispers. The piece isn’t offensive by any means — she finds opalite to be soothing, herself, its milky white hue recalls that of moonstone, and it shines through the small crescent outline in the middle of the stone. She examines it closely and tries to find just what could be so horrifying and comes up blank. She sighs and leans her forehead against the cool glass of the front door where Marianne left her standing. She sighs.

“I’m sorry, Marianne.”

Her breath fogs up the glass in no shape in particular. She looks up at the sliver of clear sky she can see around the shelter building and takes in the clear night sky, the stars, the lights of planes flying overhead, and the waning moon that’s only a sliver past full.

Hm. Weird. Is she always sick around the full moon?

Hilda sucks in a breath as the realization hits her, ice cold. She pockets the pendant and runs through the door after Marianne.

“Wait — holy  _ shit, _ Marianne, I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

Marianne nearly drops whatever thing she’s holding and, in her effort to catch it, knocks a stack of papers to the ground.

“H-Hilda?” Her eyes are wide and teary and holy fuck Hilda made her cry.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I — I wish you’d told me, I never would’ve — the wire and chain are silver coated!” Hilda gestures helplessly to the pendant, “I don’t ever want to hurt you!”

Marianne blanches and steps back. “Hilda,” her voice is laced with warning, “Please stop.”

“Ugh! Marianne! It’s okay to accept help!” 

“Please, y-you must stay away from me,” Marianne’s voice shakes as she pleads, her hands grasped together and her eyes wide and fearful, “I’m not safe to be around, I bring misfortune to everyone around me, I’m cursed—“

Hilda can’t hold back anymore. Her laughter starts small and only grows with Marianne’s surprise.

“Oh, Marianne,” she chastises and, with a grin specially designed to show off her sharpened canines she says, “Can’t you tell? I’m already cursed.”

She pales. “H-Hilda?”

“Yeeees?”

There’s a moment where Marianne steels herself. Her dainty hands form into fists and her stance widens. Hilda raises a brow. Her voice barely even shakes with her next words.

“Why did you take a job here?” she demands.

“Uh, I think that’s kind of obvious?” Hilda watches as the look on Marianne’s face goes from desperate determination to actual fury. “Whoa, whoa —”

_ “Get. Out.” _

Her voice is so cold; it’s a stark contrast from the timid-yet-warm Marianne she’s come to adore. Behind Hilda, through the door to the kennels, the dogs go from silent and calm to barking and snarling. Hilda raises her hands in front of her.

“Marianne, I don’t know what you think —”

_ “Hilda.” _

Hilda stops talking. Marianne takes a deep breath.

“I cannot allow you to hurt the animals here,” she whispers.

_ Oh. _

“Whoa, Marianne! What kind of a monster do you take me for?!” Hilda laughs hollowly, “I don’t — no, I would never —”

_ “Swear it.” _

Fuck, the room’s cold. Hilda rubs at the goosebumps on her arm and tries her best not to wither under Marianne’s sharp stare. Who knew she had it in her?

“I swear,” she barely breathes, “You know, uh, there’s entire enterprises built around delivering, you know, blood. Infused wines and all that.”

Marianne doesn’t seem to be listening. She slumps over, holding herself up with one hand against the wall, her face flushed and her eyes near tears. Hilda notices, once again, just how exhausted she appears.

“Hey,” she begins gently. The noise in the kennel has died down and she’s able to hear Marianne’s ragged breathing. “I’m sorry, Marianne. I didn’t think — that’s, like, not even an option in my mind. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Marianne nods weakly. “It’s okay. I get it.”

Hilda worries her lip and, with a deep breath, takes Marianne’s hand in her own.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” she says softly, “We can help each other, you know? I can bring, uh, I don’t know what werewol —”

“Don’t,” Marianne hisses. Hilda swallows and continues.

“I don’t know what would actually, uh, help.  _ You.” _ She sighs, “Maybe I can keep you company during the day or something. I don’t know.”

Marianne takes in a shaky breath.

“But you can ask for help,” Hilda tells her, “And I’ll help you. Okay?”

Marianne looks away. “But —”

“But nothing! Nothing. We’re friends. I really like you, Marianne.” She swallows. Shit. “I really, really like you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ""Update schedule""? I don’t know her. It’s a race to the finish line, baby
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/punchyfakegamer)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there’s a dog bite in this chapter. The dog is fine and so is everyone else. Take care!

The more time Hilda spends around Marianne the more she notices.

“Oop! You almost knocked that right over!” Hilda says as she catches a container of cotton swabs. “Is that like, a thing? Is that a, you know —“

Marianne shushes her. “No! It’s — well, maybe…” she trails off. Hilda gestures for her to continue. “Sorry, I know it creates more work for you.”

“Don’t be so silly!” Hilda laughs her off. “It’s all I can do to help!”

Marianne bites her lip before she continues. “It’s just… hard, you know? To know where I end and the beast begins.”

Hilda raises her eyebrows, but decides not to pursue the conversation when she sees how pink Marianne has gotten. She’s getting better at reading her and recognizing her limits.

So she waits until the next night to push it.

“So where does the beast end?” Hilda asks like it’s nothing important.

Marianne would have dropped the bird she was holding if it wasn’t, well, a bird.

“Um,” she fumbles with her words and eyes the bird like it might share her secrets.

“I don’t think that’s the kind that talks,” Hilda says very comfortingly.

“No, she’s not,” Marianne says.

“Oh, she? How can you tell?”

“I asked,” Marianne says simply. 

“You… asked.”

Marianne blushes. “Yes. I… I asked. It — it’s weird, I know it’s weird —“

“No it’s not!” It’s totally weird. “Look, Marianne, it’s okay! I’ve just never met a — someone like you.” Hilda smiles sweetly and comfortingly. Marianne smiles back. Hilda wants to get a statue cast so she can give herself a trophy.

Marianne doesn’t explain herself further. Hilda chats about other things for the rest of the night, determined to continue asking questions their next shift together. 

The following night, an hour after Hilda starts her shift and an hour before Marianne usually shows up, someone actually comes in.

“Hey, you’re early M — oh! Ha, sorry!” Hilda smiles very charmingly at the greying man in front of her. “I thought you were my coworker. You know, we don’t usually get anyone coming in at night. What are you here for?” 

The man fixes her with a look she decides to ignore. She decides not to ignore his gesture downard. She stands to get a better look.

Standing on all fours at the man’s feet, previously blocked by her desk, is an enormous dog who doesn’t look particularly happy about its current situation. Hilda’s grin freezes. The dog freezes. They both stand still and stare at one another in a silent challenge and threat. 

“O — oh!” Hilda tries to force the cheer, “I see. Um, who’s this guy?”

“I don’t know,” the man explains, “He’s been digging through the dumpster behind my lab. I assume he’s a stray.”

“Ah.” Cool, the dog’s growling now. This is going great. Did he really have to bring such a big one when she’s working alone? “I see. Okay. Um, can you just uh, follow me? We can bring him to the back —”

“I can’t,” the man says with an air of authority that denies challenge, “I apologize, but I’m in a hurry. Here.” He marches forward and shoves the dog’s makeshift leash into Hilda’s hands. She stammers, the dog snarls, and the man seems entirely unperturbed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Hilda does not excuse him. He damn near runs out the front door, anyway. Hilda’s smile fades and she looks, defeated, at the angry dog on the other side of the desk.

“Okay, um, I suppose this can’t be too hard,” she says, both to herself and the dog, “You know, animals don’t usually like me, but I’m pretty cool.” The dog isn’t convinced. She swallows. “Maybe we can just, uh, get along. For a bit. Until Marianne gets here.”

She considers continuing this standoff for the next hour until Marianne’s expected to arrive. Then she considers the dog getting so worked up it attacks Marianne before they can calm it down. She no longer considers continuing this standoff.

“Let’s get you in the back,” Hilda says. She’s being very encouraging, if she may say so herself, but the dog doesn’t seem to agree. She didn’t expect to have to like,  _ work _ on the overnight shift, and she’s really fucking regretting this whole thing now. She doesn’t take her eyes off the dog the entire time she’s damn near dragging it through the raucous kennels and into the back, and she doesn’t take her eyes off it when she closes the door behind her to one of the solo rooms.

“This can’t be that hard,” she breathes out. “What does Marianne do?”

For the first time since they began this exchange she takes her eyes off the dog. The room they’re in is small; two chairs sit against a wall and a single dim light shines overhead, providing a space that’s supposed to be serene and calming for a family meeting their new dog but is really fucking spooky for Hilda who’s very, very scared. There’s nowhere to go if things go sideways.

Hilda exhales shakily. She has to be brave. There’s nobody here to take care of this. She doesn’t remember shit from her training. She just has to… what did she see Marianne do again?

Hilda crouches down. The dog’s eyes follow her.

“Hey, buddy,” she says lowly, calmly, a far cry from how she actually feels. “It’s alright, yeah? There’s nothing to get hurt on in here. And Marianne will be here soon. You’re really gonna like Marianne.”

The dog does not appreciate this. Hilda tries a new angle.

“You have very nice eyebrows,” she observes. The dog does, indeed, have very nice eyebrows. They’re little brown dots standing out against black fur. “Do you do them yourself?”

The dog continues to growl.

Hilda files through what she’s seen Marianne do through the little window to the meeting room. She’s already crouched, she’s talking quietly and saying nice things, but she doesn’t think dogs understand spoken words the way people do. What else does she do?

Hilda extends her hand palm up.

The dog snarls and sinks its teeth into her hand.

_ “FUCK!” _ Hilda shouts.  _ Fuck. _ The dog startles and releases and she stands and darts out the door.

“Fuck! Fuck!”

Hilda blows on the punctures dotting her palm and hand. It doesn’t do shit, but it kind of makes her feel better. The muscle tissue, skin, and a punctured bone knit themselves together before her eyes, encouraged by her super cool vampire blood, and she breathes a sigh of relief and leans against the door as the pain fades and her head clears.

_ That, _ she thinks,  _ Was so fucking stupid. _

She notes, dully, that the dog she’s now referring to as  _ that asshole _ is losing its damn mind in the room behind her, barking and snarling and yowling and scratching at the door. Ugh. That’s gonna be a whole thing, isn’t it? Fucking —

Oh,  _ hell. _ There’s blood fucking everywhere.

Without flesh to draw together Hilda’s blood vibrates around the edges, desperate to save its holder from a gruesome death. Her gut sinks. There’s not a lot on this side of the door, just a small puddle not even the size of her hand (and, she concedes, maybe a bit on her clothes), but.

She gets on her toes and turns her head to see through the small window on the door.

Yeah, she’s gonna have a fucking problem.

The dog, who Hilda now understands is fucking covered in her blood, is flipping out because her vampire stank is all over the room and all over it. She begins to hyperventilate; there’s jack  _ shit  _ she can do about this. She can’t bathe the dog without risking another bite and, while she heals fast, she’s not immune to pain nor is she immune to bleeding to death. She can’t even get the dog out of the room without risking another bite, and getting the dog out of the room sounds like a really fucking great way to get more blood  _ everywhere. _

She tries to catch her breath and her thoughts but it’s fruitless. She can hardly process the things around her, the blood under her shoes, the flickering fluorescent light. 

“Hello?”

It’s distant. Somebody’s in the building. Hilda doesn’t know whether she should feel relieved or terrified. She settles on continuing to panic.

“...Hilda?”

Shit, shit, shit, shit,  _ shit, _ oh she’s so fucked. She’s so fucked. She’s so fucked. She’s so fucked.

_ “Hilda!” _

Hilda chokes on her own scream and immediately surrenders to the pressure on the back of her neck and she’s pulled against something, _something_ that holds her and soothes her and the pounding of her heart drowns out whatever words are being said but she finally catches her breath and takes big, deep gulps of air.

“Hilda, can you hear me?”

She can hear. She nods.

“It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay. There’s blood, are you hurt? Is the dog hurt?”

Hilda shakes her head.

“Okay. Where did the blood come from, Hilda?”

“I — I —” she swallows and takes a deep breath in. The air is vaguely floral, musky, almost soft in a way that might be metaphorical and might not. “It — the dog — bit my hand, it bit —”

Small hands take hers. She jumps.

“I don’t see any injuries, where did it bite you?”

“Uh, it — this one,” Hilda lifts her healed hand. It’s just as covered in blood as the rest of her. The same hands take hers and carefully inspect it and, distantly, Hilda realizes it’s weird that there’s no longer any wounds.  _ Shit. _

“Hm? What was that, Hilda?”

Ah, she said that out loud.

“I…” she looks up. Somehow she’s not surprised to see blue eyes, sharper than she’s ever seen them, looking straight through her. There’s a smear of blood on Marianne’s face; it must’ve gotten in Hilda’s hair. “Oh, Marianne. I’m — I’m so glad to see you, I — the dog, the dog in there, the room — it’s covered in blood, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.  _ I don’t know what to do.” _

“Well, we have six hours until Dedue gets here,” Marianne says. Hilda grasps to her words. They’re solid, even, steady. “That’s six hours to solve this. Why did the dog bite you?”

“It  _ hates _ me!” Hilda wails. All dogs hate her. 

“I doubt that,” Marianne says. She takes Hilda’s face in both her hands and leans their foreheads together. Hilda is suddenly very, very aware of how much she’s shaking and how jerky her movements are. “It sounds scared. Please sit down, let me talk to it.”

Marianne guides her to a short rolling stool and, while Hilda’s still processing how cold the metal feels on her ass, she disappears through the door and the barking stops. After what feels like an eternity and no time at all the door opens and Hilda watches with wide eyes as Marianne carries the very calm dog like a fucking baby to the bathing station.

“What the fuck,” Hilda breathes out. Her thoughts are slowing down and she’s able to register just how buck fucking wild that was. Seriously, though,  _ what the fuck? _

Marianne passes back through the room, carrying a blood-free dog, removes her shoes before leaving for the kennels, and comes back dog free after just a few minutes. Hilda’s mouth hangs open in shock and awe.

“How did you  _ do _ that?” Hilda asks. 

“Oh, um, I told him that he can trust you,” Marianne explains. Hilda blinks.

_ “I  _ told him he could trust me!” she whines, “Why’d he listen to you?”

Marianne steps back into her shoes and, with her eyes on the whole blood situation instead of Hilda she says quietly, “Beasts understand me, Hilda. And I understand them.”

Hilda’s brain stops working. Then every single synapse connects at the same time and it’s like she can see the entire universe laid out before her.

“Ooh!” she says, “I get it. Marianne, that’s like, really cool.”

Marianne shakes her head. “Please, let’s just… clean up,” she says. 

Hilda hums in acknowledgement, and perhaps a threat that their conversation isn’t over, and retrieves everything she thinks might possibly help. A mop, a bucket, a shitton of bleach, paper towels, rags, a bucket full of shit that looks like cleaning supplies. A few minutes into cleaning up Hilda takes the rag Marianne is using to smear blood around and finishes the job herself while Marianne sits.

“Thanks for your help, Marianne,” Hilda says, breaking the silence they’ve maintained for the better part of three hours. The meeting room is blood free, as is the bathing area and floor. All that’s left is, well, the two of them.

“Oh, um,” Hilda doesn’t need to look at Marianne to know she’s looking down, “It’s… after everything you’ve done for me, it’s the least I could do. Thank you.”

“Whaat? That was like, way cooler than anything I’ve done,” Hilda says.

Marianne doesn’t say anything and the silence grows. With everything slowing down the quiet stands out to her, and she can’t stand it.

“You’re like, super cool. You know that, right?”

Marianne says nothing. Hilda focuses on reducing the visible blood on her black sweater. She’d like to be able to get home without questions, thank you very much.

“Suuure, you can be kinda messy and stuff,” Hilda continues, “But you’re like, so nice, and you always know what to do.”

Hilda’s about to fuck up real bad but she can’t stop herself.

“A girl could really fall in love with you, you know?”

She feels the air freeze. Stubbornly, and perhaps stupidly, she continues rinsing her sweater as if nothing weird happened. As if that was a normal thing to say. As if she didn’t just realize something very, very important about herself.

When she looks up Marianne is gone.

“Oh,” she says. “Shit.”

* * *

Hilda wishes now more than ever that she could like, shut the fuck up once in awhile.

“She’s… she’s sick?” Hilda asks uncertainly. It’s only been a couple weeks since the last full moon, she shouldn’t be sick.

“Yeah, Hilda, she’s sick,” Ashe says. Ashe is so sick of her shit. She really doesn’t care.

“What do you mean, she’s  _ sick? _ She was just sick!”

Ashe pauses to stare at her. She ignores the way Dedue suppresses a chuckle.

“Folks don’t get sick on a schedule,” Ashe says. 

“That’s not — ugh!” she cries. Ashe and Dedue leave. Marianne doesn’t come in. She spends the night behind the reception desk running over every stupid thing she said the night before. Why is she such a fucking moron?

Shortly after sunrise the front door opens and a familiar head of light green hair bobs through. She grabs her shit and runs.

“Thanks, Ignatz!” she shouts behind her. She doesn’t wait to hear his confused questioning; she’s got places to be. 

“Little Bin, Little Bin,” she chants to herself as if that means anything. She really should’ve paid more attention to Caspar’s shitty air map. Maybe she should just call him and ask, he’s awake at the asscrack of dawn anyway. No, wait, he’ll tell Ashe and Hilda will get an earful. No, okay, she can figure this out. She remembers north east. She’ll go to the north and to the east. How hard can it be?

Well! Turns out it can be pretty fucking hard.

“I didn’t think it’d be this big,” Hilda whines. She pulls out her phone and feels really stupid that she wasn’t using it for directions in the first place. From what she can tell, Little Bin is a smaller neighborhood within the general North East umbrella, but holy shit the neighborhood outline on her phone encompasses a  _ lot _ of space.

“Hey,” she grabs some dude in a ponytail and track pants jogging by, “Do you know where there’s like, a super spooky house?”

“What the fuck?” he mutters and shakes her off. Um, rude.

“Hey!” she calls to some ginger trailing shortly behind him, “Do you know where there’s a super spooky house?”

“Huh?” the ginger dude asks. Ponytail guy jogs back and lightly hits him over the head. Ginger dude shrugs and jogs away.

“Fucking college kids,” she sighs to herself. She really does have to do everything herself, doesn’t she? 

Luckily for her, she’s very smart. She follows her map to a stretch of road that backs against the national park Caspar had described and gets to walking. The woods are spookier than she thought they’d be for being such a popular hiking spot. It’s kinda neat, really. And kinda the exact place she’d expect a werewolf to chill on a full moon.

She walks with purpose down one block, two block, six blocks, and finally, on the eighth block, she finds a dilapidated car parked in front of an equally dilapidated house. Vines climb up the siding and through a broken window where she can see a shadow moving around, backlit by a dim overhead light.

Hilda stands, very unsuspiciously and nonchalantly, and waits hopefully.

Luckily for her, she’s also very lucky. 

“Marianne!” she shouts in her least suspicious and most nonchalant shout, “I’ve been looking for you!”

Marianne, framed in the front door of the house and carrying a giant lump of something, freezes.

She backs up and shuts the door.

“Oh, you’ve got to be  _ fucking _ kidding me,” Hilda mutters to herself. She stomps up the drive to the porch and rings the doorbell, which dings spookily. Cripes.

Nobody opens the door.

She rings the bell again. “Marianne! Come on, talk to me!”

Nobody opens the door. She rings the bell several times just to be extra annoying.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I talk too much,” she yells through the door, “I didn’t mean to scare you! Just — come out and talk to me? Please?”

Nobody opens the door.

Hilda crosses her arms and sits on the porch floor in a huff. “I’m not leaving!”

There’s an incredibly unpleasant sound of old metal against old metal and the door slowly creaks open. Marianne looks out through the space between door and jamb.

“You should leave,” she says. Hilda can hardly hear her. She’s so used to parsing out her quiet thoughts that it doesn’t even matter.

“No,” Hilda says.

“You should leave,” she repeats herself, but her words aren’t any stronger than before.

“No,” Hilda says. Her words are.

“I shouldn’t have let us get so close,” Marianne says. Her voice catches and Hilda realizes she’s crying and has been for awhile. Her heart leaps into her throat and then sinks down her entire body. “I shouldn’t — I’m sorry, Hilda. It’s best that I… I’m leaving.”

Hilda’s body goes ice cold.

“Leaving?!”

Marianne says nothing. Hilda, who hasn’t learned a lesson in her damn life, keeps talking.

“You can’t leave!” she cries, “Why would you leave? That’s such a stupid reason to leave!”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“You know it’s stupid!” Hilda’s temper that she’s kept so carefully checked with Marianne is raging, “Why can’t you have friends? Why — why can’t you let somebody love you?”

Let it be known Hilda will continue to never learn a damn lesson.

_ “Why can’t you let me love you?” _

Marianne’s breath hitches. It’s silent, even the leaves aren’t rustling together. Hilda keeps going.

“You can’t just run!” she stands and, perhaps petulantly, stomps her foot. “You’re taking the easy way out. The — the  _ lazy _ way out. And I know lazy!”

“Yes,” Marianne whispers, “I am.”

She shuts the door. Hilda’s hands, clenched into fists, shake at her sides, and hot tears fall down her face and down her neck.

Hilda’s no stranger to rejection. She’s no stranger to heartbreak. 

She is, however, a stranger to ruining someone else’s life.

* * *

Hilda doesn’t ask about Marianne her next shift. If Ashe looks at her strange, or if he knows more than he lets on and glares, she doesn’t notice.

Every stupid word plays over and over. She knows better. She knows Marianne can’t handle pressure. She knows to take days at a time to approach the simplest things. So why can’t she fucking do things right?

Another night passes and she doesn’t ask. And another. And another. Two more weeks pass and, on the next full moon, she calls out sick. She has to know. She  _ has _ to.

This time she knows where she’s going. The house where she let Marianne down is just as dilapidated as it was two weeks ago. No lights shine through the windows. The stupid beat up car still sits in front of the house, though now it’s packed full of shit. She swallows and walks forward. 

Nobody answers the front door. There’s no sound of movement, no signs of life. She tries to walk in but, to nobody’s surprise, the door’s locked. She sighs, defeated, and walks around to the backyard.

It’s nothing special. Short grass gives way to shrubbery and trees. A well traveled dirt path snakes through a thin space in the bushes. Hilda weighs her options.

Option one: she could just, like, go home and get over it and also herself.

Option two: she could wait on the porch until someone calls the cops.

Option three: she could follow what is clearly a werewolf’s path into the spooky woods on a full moon on the off chance she runs into werewolf Marianne, who definitely wouldn’t kill her.

Fuck it!  _ I’m a vampire, _ she reasons,  _ it’s probably fine. _

She makes the excellent decision to follow the dirt path through the shrubs and continues to follow it through trees, brush, around boulders and old stone walls. The damp forest floor gives way to her steps, muffling her movements and muffling the world around her.

It’s peaceful out here. If she wasn’t so fucking sad she might have a good time.

A small smile crosses her face when she finds the end of the path; a clearing, rich with ferns and clearly illuminated by the full moon, stands in front of her, peaceful and welcoming. She gently steps into the center and notes with some disappointment that none of the ferns have been flattened by a beast’s steps.

“Dunno what I expected,” she says to herself. “I s’pose I —”

Hilda’s thoughts are cut off by a sharp chill down her neck. She freezes. Her eyes sweep the spaces between the trees and she slowly, slowly turns.

“Fuck my a — AHH!”

She barely stumbles onto her ass and out of the way of an incredible beast. Its eyes glow red, its claws yearn to pierce her skin, its drool hangs like nasty icicles from between its teeth. Hilda swallows. 

“M — Marianne?” she tries. The beast doesn’t register. It turns slowly, clumsy, and appraises her from one fucking terrifying eye. Her legs are weak. She can’t stand. Why did she do this, again? What the fuck was she thinking?

The beast lowers its head.

“Please,” Hilda begs.

The beast doesn’t heed her plea. Oh, she’s undead and she’s gonna fucking die because she’s too fucking gay to let a cute girl run away. This is why she minds her own damn business!

She screams when the beast runs toward her, helpless and on the ground and far too cute to die this way. She shuts her eyes and braces herself for what’s going to be an incredibly painful demise and completely fucking misses the  _ crunch _ that follows.

She opens her eyes and, standing between her and the beast, is  _ another _ snarling beast, bigger and far scarier than before.  _ Great, _ she thinks,  _ they’re arguing over who gets to eat me. Real great. _

The bigger one wins and she’s not surprised. She’s also not surprised that her legs are still too weak for her to stand. The new beast turns and she shudders under its gaze. Its teeth and horns are jagged and sharp and its long, blue tongue lolls out and drips what Hilda thinks might be poison into the ferns, which fizzle and curl at the edges underneath it. 

“H — hello, uh, your beastliness,” she tries. The monster before her blinks slowly. “I, um, would like to not be eaten. You know, if my opinion counts for anything. That’d be, like, super cool.”

It turns. Its fur shines dirty yet iridescent in the moonlight. It might be pretty if not for the whole, you know, deadly claws and murder face thing.

“Yeah, I know you don’t care about little ol’ me,” she says with a weak laugh, “But, y’know, maybe you could? Just a little?”

A growl comes from low in its throat. It’s… soft. Its sharp gaze watches her slowly raise a hand, just like Marianne does. Did. Hilda realizes its nostrils are  _ enormous _ when it sniffs her hand. 

“See?” She considers what Marianne said about that terrifying dog. It was scared. Only scared. Can a beast like this even  _ be _ scared? “I’m nothin’. Just little ol’ Hilda, harmless.”

However much she managed to relax is lost to her yelp of terror when the beast lays across her lap, pinning her in place and, um, relaxing into her?

Hilda shakily runs her hand through the beast’s fur. It’s dirty, that’s not new, and in the moonlight it shines in shades of pink and blue. 

And near the beast’s head is a loosely braided crown. Her breath hitches.

“Oh,” she breathes. Oh, shit. 

Every beast fears Hilda. Marianne would  _ never. _

She stays, pinned under the beast, until she falls asleep weaving ferns and flowers through a freshly braided crown.

When she wakes at dawn the beast is gone, and in its place lays an  _ incredibly naked _ Marianne.

Hilda hurries to remove her sweater and throw it over Marianne. She’s tucking the edges around her body when she hears a sleepy, slurred voice.

“H… Hilda?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, the length of this got out of hand. i have a short epilogue planned for the final chapter and then it's over! wow!
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/punchyfakegamer)


	4. Epilogue

“So, like, does everybody know?”

Marianne calmly takes a sip of water before responding. “Does everybody know… what?”

“That’s you’re a — you know!”

“Hm.” Marianne sets her glass down on the windowsill; she’s cracked the window to allow the steam from her bath to escape, and to invite a cool breeze into the bathroom. “I think so. I know Dedue knows.”

Hilda groans. “So I  _ was _ the last to know!”

“I don’t know about that.” Marianne relaxes into the hot water. Her face is flushed, her breathing even. She’s so exhausted she isn’t even stuttering. “I don’t believe Caspar knows.”

Hilda doesn’t think Caspar knows anything. 

“That doesn’t count,” she mutters. Marianne doesn’t respond. She continues. “How did they respond?” The question comes out much softer than she expected.

Marianne cracks an eye open. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s, like, a secret! Right? It’s a secret?”

Marianne closes her eye. “Oh, uh, no. Not really.”

Hilda’s brain takes a moment to catch up.

“Not really? What?!”

Marianne probably shrugs. Hilda can’t see her shoulders through the bubbles. “I told Dedue about you.”

“You  _ what?!” _

“He already knew.”

“He  _ what?!” _

A soft smile crosses Marianne’s face. She’s lucky she’s so cute. “He said he hired you because you’ll actually stay awake all night.”

Hilda leans her head against the edge of the tub. “Figures,” she mutters. Then, a moment later she says, “I guess that means I don’t have to quit.”

“Hm? Why in the world would you quit?”

“I always have to,” she shrugs, “People start to notice stuff. People talk. I quit and I find a new job where nobody knows me. The cycle starts over.”

Marianne hums. “That’s too bad,” she says, “You really are quite pleasant.”

Hilda lifts her head and leans her chin on the edge of the tub. “So you think I’m pleasant, huh?”

“Yes, I do.”

Hilda grins smugly. “You’re pretty pleasant too, you know. And! Pleasantly pretty.”

Marianne would blush if she weren’t already so pink from the heat. “What? Hilda!”

“Hmmmm?”

“Why did you say that?!”

Hilda’s grin widens. “Maybe I just want you to know you’re pretty. Maybe I just want you to know I, specifically, think you’re pretty.”

Marianne turns away to look out the window. “Hilda…”

“Hey, so,” she cuts her off, “I was serious. And uh, I kinda think I love you? Is that weird?”

Marianne keeps her eyes trained on the open window. “Yes,” she whispers, “It is.”

“Ah, don’t be like that!”

“What could you possibly love about someone like me?” Marianne asks softly. She looks far away. If she wasn’t butt naked Hilda would pull her into a hug.

“Well! You’re kind,” Hilda explains, “You’re thoughtful, you get really cute and passionate about animal stuff, you look  _ very _ cute when you make a nest in your sweater…”

Hilda trails off. Marianne looks close to tears. 

“You shouldn’t love someone like me,” Marianne whispers.

“Too bad!”

She turns to stare at Hilda, eyes wide and lip trembling. Hilda passes her the glass of water. “You don’t understand, Hilda.”

“Explain, then.”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath and continues. “I told you. I’m cursed. I only bring misfortune —”

“Marianne.”

“You deserve better —”

“Okay, we’re gonna stop right there,” Hilda takes away the glass of water and it has the intended effect; Marianne stares at her now empty hands. “You know, Marianne, it’s okay if you just want to reject me. I can take it.”

“What?!”

“I’m tough, you know?”

“That’s — that’s not —”

“Oh, you mean it? You’re cursed or whatever?”

Marianne looks completely bewildered. She sits up in the tub and Hilda does  _ not _ look to see if the bubbles are covering up her boobs. Definitely not. (They are.)

“Yes! Hilda, my parents  _ died _ trying to help me!”

“Oh, damn,” Hilda nods, “That sucks.”

“What —”

“You know I’m like, super tough, right?”

“Hilda —”

“I’m a big girl? That I can take care of myself?”

“Hilda!”

“Maybe,” Hilda leans over the edge of the tub and gets closer to her. Marianne’s breath hitches. “Maybe you should let me decide for myself.”

“Hilda, I…”

She leans further. Their noses are nearly touching. “Do you want to try and love me?”

Marianne shudders. Hilda leans closer. Marianne doesn’t lean away.

“I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

Marianne swallows. Hilda hopes real fucking hard that’s a yes. It’s difficult to stop smiling, and she can only manage it for a brief moment of contact, and when she pulls back Marianne’s hands tangle themselves in Hilda’s ponytail and Hilda yelps in delight as she’s pulled forward into the tub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/punchyfakegamer)


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